Page 28 of The Show

“Come on then, where’ve you got to?”

I pulled my sunglasses into place again before answering. “With what?”

“Thinking. I assume this is why you’re down here and your bed wasn’t slept in.”

“Oh,” I laid back, hands behind my head. “I dunno yet.”

The pair of them joined me lying on the damp grass and staring up at the cloudless sky. The moon had long disappeared, and the blue had deepened to the exact shade of the dress Lowe had been wearing last night.

My dick twitched again, and I closed my eyes so I could see her. If I’d been able to concentrate, I’d have almost been able to smell that crisp, intoxicating fragrance she always wore – of limes and jasmine and sunshine – and which reminded me so much of the weeks leading up to the summer I’d been sent to stay on my grandparents yacht that I could almost taste it on the tip of my tongue.

But I couldn’t, due to the destroyers of peace and quiet next to me.

“Hey, Raferty, we’re best friends with a guy who owns a baseball team.”

“Yeah, and not just any baseball team; a fuckin’ major league baseball team.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty fucking cool.”

“We better get tickets to every game.”

“I was thinking that Barclay could be the bat dog. Fans love that shit.”

“Yes! Great plan. We can get him a little uniform and hat! He can run onto the field and pick up Jupiter Reeves’ bat.”

I rolled my eyes and let out a hearty scoff.

“We’re not having a fucking bat dog. That’s minor leagues. This is the serious shit.”

I tried to go back to my day dreaming.

“So let’s make him the minor leagues’ bat dog. What’s it called again?”

It was at that point I gave up on thinking about Lowe in her dress. I’d have to indulge later. “What’s what called?”

“The Minor League teams for The Lions.”

Hmm, that one got me. I’d never paid them enough attention to care, but I’m sure I’d read it or heard it recently, seeing as my life for the last three months had been all about The Lions. “Oh, they’re called The White Plains Jungle Kings.”

A hand smacked me. “That’s perfect! We’ll get a little lion costume made for Barclay, turn him into a lion. And while we’re at it, we’ll get one for Bell too, have her lead him onto the field. We can get t-shirts with his face on them. People would eat that shit up. You’d sell out.”

I started laughing. God, my friends were idiots. But I could always count on them making me laugh. And they weren’t wrong about it being cute or a sellout, and seeing as White Plains was near enough for it to logistically work, I could make it happen.

“Okay, I’ll consider Barclay as a bat dog. But that’s the best I can offer. Fuck!” I flung my hands over my face, with another groan. The boys stayed silent. “I’m obviously going to do it, aren’t I?”

Murray sat up, propping himself on one elbow to peer down at me. “Barclay or the club?”

“Both. I’m bent over a barrel, and I don’t have a choice, so I’m obviously going to do it. FUCK!” I repeated, jumping to my feet where I started pacing, then stopped. The pair of them were looking up at me like they’d been waiting all their life for this moment. I dropped my head in defeat. “I’m going to have to build a team that can beat The Yankees.”

They didn’t move, or even blink. Murray was doing a very good job at hiding a smile, but I knew it was there.

“Be honest, what’s been bothering you more? Owning the club, or owning the club and beating The Yankees?”

To the layman, this might sound like a trivial problem. Because who the fuck was arrogant enough to announce they were going to build a team to not only take on one of the best clubs of the past century, but beat them, too? And I didn’t mean one game. I meant knock them off the top spot for good.

Me, that’s who.

I had been blessed with an above average level of intelligence, like way,wayabove. As such, ninety-nine percent of things came to me with relative ease. The final one percent may have required a little bit more work, but due to said intelligence levels, I was more than capable of putting it in, and doing it well. Bottom line: I always came out on top.

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